


Viva La Vida

by nanashiii



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dimension Travel, Dream SMP Ensemble Angst, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Insane Wilbur Soot, Memory Loss, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Redemption, Resurrected Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, wilbur soot does some messed up stuff, wilbur soot has too much power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanashiii/pseuds/nanashiii
Summary: In which-No, you don't remember, do you?Dream really should've listened to Tommy. Resurrecting Wilbur Soot was one of the worst mistakes that he ever made, and no one escapes free of the consequences. Dream's SMP falls, and everyone falls with it....Into a new one, where Wilbur Soot plays God and only he and possibly a way-too-tall teenager can remember the Dream SMP.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream's Sister Drista & Hannah | Hannahxxrose (Video Blogging RPF), Dream SMP Ensemble & TommyInnit, Dream SMP ensemble & Wilbur Soot, Eret & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo & Other(s), Ranboo & Wilbur Soot, Sapnap & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 20
Kudos: 158





	1. I Used To Rule The World

His blue eyes are bright again, Wilbur notes.

"G'morning, big- big m-man-" 

The grin that stretches across Tommy's face couldn't be more genuine, and yet nothing could ever possibly stop the tears that are gathering in his eyes. He can barely stop those same tears from falling as he stands there, every ounce of his willpower necessary in order to hold him back from launching himself straight into his dead brother's arms.

Wilbur had died years ago. Maybe half a year for Tommy, but for him? He hadn't seen Tommy in _years._

Wilbur stares at him, and decides that questions can wait. So he lets himself smile. He takes in the bruised, battered form of his brother- the mark of the final, fatal injury never goes away in the afterlife, hence the stab wound marring his chest and marring his memories in something cursed- and wonders why the world chose to damn Tommy to pain so terrible. 

He's the one to hug Tommy. He wraps his arms around him and swears to himself that he won't let go until he does.

Tommy stiffens for a moment, shoulders impossibly tense, but Wilbur's embrace is gratifying. He returns it. He flings his arms around his brother, and barks out a wavering laugh through the pain.

"...Well. Welcome home, Tommy."

_Tommy._

Not Theseus, the name Techno loved to call him. Not big man, or child, or any of the other ridiculous nicknames that Tommy took in stride and turned into his brand. _Tommy._ God, did hearing Wilbur say his name again hurt. He couldn't stop the tears. His mind screamed at him for being pathetic, worthless, weak, but Wilbur's hold was grounding, and kind, and everything that Dream's words hadn't been.

As soon as Wilbur spoke, Tommy knew that this was _him._ _His brother._ Not the insane version of him that had spiraled down into immeasurable depths within that dark ravine, who's voice was a scream even when he whispered. Not the dead version, a cruel echo of the past, with blue-stained hands and a drifting voice too faint to be comforting.

It was him, his brother, who had been the first person to always care.

Even in their cottage in the snow, when Techno and Phil would be off on some adventure and Wilbur wasn't more than a boy barely a teenager that had to carry the weight of two worlds, he had cared. Even when they'd left their childhood home and nothing was stable or remotely okay, he'd always made sure Tommy had enough. More than that, he'd made sure that Tommy was happy. Even when Wilbur fell in love with the idea of a nation and would occasionally put it before Tommy, even if Tommy wasn't the highest priority on his list, it was more than obvious that he'd always care.

Tommy wonders, had he still been around, if Wilbur would've cared when Tubbo hadn't.

The Wilbur that lost himself to insanity wasn't his Wilbur. That was a Wilbur who'd stopped caring. Tommy couldn't help but blame himself for everything that had lead into the creation of that Wilbur. If he'd bothered to care more, would things have been better? Could he have been enough?

Tommy didn't want to step away, every part of him reluctant to do so. But he did. He didn't want to be _too_ clingy, not like Tubbo was.

A corner of his mind whispers to him, wondering what Tubbo would think about him being gone. A darker corner whispers that Tubbo wouldn't care. He ignores it. Tubbo would be fine. He had Ranboo, didn't he? Tommy was glad that he wouldn't be alone, but it's both longing and worry (and jealousy, maybe, though he'd never admit it) pushing him to want to be back there with his best friend. Ranboo, Jack, Puffy...

They'd have to do what he couldn't.

As Tommy stepped back from Wilbur, he took a moment to look at him. His brother's hair was infuriatingly preened to perfection, red beanie pulled over it and sitting in a lopsided manner. That cursed trench coat that had grown progressively more horrifying and torn up through the time of Pogtopia was nowhere to be seen. He was dressed in the yellow sweater that Tommy knew to be his favorite. The sweater was far from perfect, smudged with dirt in numerous places, worn out to a dull mockery of what it was in childhood, and patched up with uneven stitches. 

Not to mention the blood, splattered over the chest area from when his own father had stabbed him. Their own father. 

Tommy feels like a fool for calling for Phil when he was trapped in that prison. How could he have been _that_ desperate? Phil didn't care. ~~Sam always said he cared, but Sam didn't give in to his pleas and begging. Dream always said he cared, until he didn't.~~

Wilbur, in turn, got a better look at Tommy. He looked... terrible, even in death. He wanted to know what happened to him for an appearance this horrid, and what better way to find out than to ask?

"Tommy?"

"Wil-" he choked out. "God, Wil, don't mind me- no, please don't look at me, I'm sure I seem rather like a pussy right now-" He wiped away his tears with the palms of his hands, the motion so startlingly reminiscent of something a child might do that Wilbur found himself staring. 

"Tommy, what happened to you?"

Wilbur has to stop himself from wincing as Tommy's eyes widen and the blonde fumbles for an answer, tripping on his words to find a suitable reply for the question without really having to give one. "Well- uh, I- what'd you mean, man? _Wilbur,_ my friend, I'm perfectly fine! Just a little less- a little less alive, yeah? Ha!" He laughs at himself, but it's hardly a laugh.

"Tommy. Please." Wilbur's tone leaves no room for argument, and Tommy swallows thickly.

It takes him a minute, but he gives his reluctant answer.

"...Dream happened," he muttered, averting his eyes from Wilbur. His voice is confusing. It held bitterness and guilt. Maybe even fear, though he doubted Tommy would ever tell him if it was so. Wilbur couldn't pinpoint it, but he knew his own emotions as clear as day.

He forced down the anger, knowing that Tommy was watching him with a cautiousness and wide eyes that he was trying to hide. His emotions were getting easier to control, and it was much better now than it had been in Pogtopia.

Or, at least, it was easier to pretend.

That's one thing he doesn't miss of the time period of Schlatt's presidency. (But he almost wants to miss how simple it all used to be. Back then, it was hell. Now? He'd take it any day.) Speaking of Schlatt... he wondered how Tommy would react to seeing him again. Wilbur himself had long since learned to tolerate, accept, and sometimes enjoy his company. He wouldn't be surprised if Tommy's hatred was still a raging fire, but that was a matter for another time.

"That green motherfucker," Wilbur growled, feeling a spark of relief at how Tommy made a noise that might've been a laugh. The relief fades as it sinks in how fake it sounds, and the smile that came onto his face quickly faltered.

He opened his arms again, because he knows that actions are a better offer than words will ever be. Tommy looks like he's going to cry as he lets his hesitance melt away and launches himself into his brother's hug.

"I-I reckon you could a-allow me to be a pussy for a minute, Wil, yeah?" Tommy's voice is heavy with a heart-wrenching pain that makes Wilbur nearly dizzy with guilt. He's the reason his brother has suffered so much. He's the reason that a child went to war and came out from it as more of an adult than anyone at that age should have to be. He's the reason-

No. There's no time for all of that. There's no time for guilt. All he can do is change the future- the past is set in stone.

(A voice in the back of his mind whispers that it might not be, a voice accompanied by books and castles and a lost button. He ignores it.)

"I've missed you," Tommy mumbled, head buried into Wilbur's shoulder. He sniffled. Wilbur could feel a spot of wetness from Tommy's tears soaking through his sweater, but he didn't comment on it. "Why'd you have to fucking die, eh?"

"I would've only done more bad," he replied simply. "I'm sorry, Toms."

Tommy's voice is strained. "Don't be s-sorry, dickhead," he muttered. "No- no, I take that back. _Do_ b-be sorry, asshole, but we... I should've done more."

"You couldn't have." It's simple once more, clear as day and far too easy to admit. "None of my mental health issues were something that you could've changed. Not you, or Techno, or Niki, or Tubbo... Everything that happened- it was all on me." Maybe he's beginning to cry, too, as he says, "But I'm sorry I couldn't have been there for you longer, and that I hurt you so much."

"Good." Tommy sniffled again. His embrace around Wilbur loosened and the brunette took the hint; He relaxed his hold around Tommy and let his arms fall back as he stepped away.

"Do you want to sit somewhere?" Wilbur offered. "I'm sure there's more we need to talk about."

Tommy nods. And so Wilbur leads him away, further into his "house" of the afterlife that he calls the void.

Wilbur remembers seeing Tommy's eyes last time. How long ago had last time been? _Years,_ his mind whispered. Years ago, when he doubted it was more than a month in Tommy's time, when Tubbo and Tommy had been side by side on the bench. They'd celebrated their victory (victory is painfully temporary, is it not?) of locking dream in prison, and began mending their shaky, torn up friendship. 

Wilbur Soot is notorious for being a liar.

He remembers saying to Tommy that he was proud of him. Wilbur Soot is notorious for lying but even he doesn't know if that was a false truth, because the conflicting emotions that strike his mind whenever he considers Tommy and what the boy has done are no help.

He remembers catching a glimpse of Tommy's eyes when Tommy couldn't see his, and wondering why they were such a dull shade of blue. They were more grey than blue, actually, tainted and cloudy and nothing that accurately captured who he had always been.

Wilbur Soot wondered if he even knew this Tommy at all.

After all, Tommy knows _nothing_ about him.

Tommy, later on, thinks back and wonders why he let the delusion engulf him so easily. Things seemed as close to okay as they would get, given the situation, and he once again had underestimated the world's ability to make his life worse. Tranquility will never be anything more than an ignorant illusion that only the most foolish individuals would ever declare as stable. Tommy is one of those fools, and God, did he hate to admit it.

It only lasted for about a week. Seven days in, and Tommy realized with a striking sense of horror that this was _not_ the Wilbur who cared.

It was a poor façade of that Wilbur, painted and dripping in the lies that his brother held so close to his heart. It was a mask that was far too easy to crack. Metaphorical, physical... Tommy didn't give a shit; He hated masks. That dumb one that Dream wore that haunted his nightmares (how ironic; he almost laughs at the thought), Tubbo's fake smiles and reserved politeness, Ranboo's that he didn't even seem all that aware of... and Eret's. 

Eret had claimed that it was never meant to be. Eret had been the first of many to lead their damned world into an even more hellish one, and so Tommy sometimes wants to blame them for all of it.

Wilbur had claimed the same exact thing, a crooning songbird giving out his last lilting melody, stepping into the imprints of Eret's shoes and following them down to the snow-covered path to hell.

And in that week, Tommy knew that things were never meant to be okay.

It was slow, and gradual, and subtle, and such a patient decline that he thinks Wilbur was proud of himself for it. But the comfort became biting words; the solitaire competitions became ranting sessions; the truths became lies and _God,_ Tommy felt blind for not being able to tell.

He was alone, and he was cold, and Wilbur would never be able to provide the warmth that he so desperately needed.

Schlatt and Mexican Dream were no help. The former hadn't woken up once, and Mexican Dream rarely had a single thought that wasn't the opposite of rational. Tommy wanted Tubbo, or Sam, or even Phil. Anyone but this cruel version of Wilbur. Heck, Ghostbur would be better.

Tommy wouldn't mind taking some "blue", breathing in the imaginary comfort that the flower petals stained with so much dye would give. Ghostbur claimed that they would absorb your sadness and make you feel better. Tubbo had once said to Tommy that Ghostbur was probably high. It had been a joke, but Tommy found himself wondering too many times to count afterward if the "blue" was Ghostbur's version of a drug.

"Do you miss L'manburg, Tommy"?

Wilbur's voice was soft and yet dangerous, bone-chilling and all too casual as he sorted through the cards that were laid out in front of him. Tommy watched him with narrow eyes, rather disgruntled. None of the conversations with Wilbur that started with the man asking a question ever went well, and Tommy didn't want to kindle the fire.

He had to. If he didn't, would Wilbur get mad? Would Wilbur's anger start to parallel Dream's?

He didn't want that to happen, even if it logically wouldn't. He wouldn't risk it, with Wilbur's mental stability so clearly fragile and rocky.

"Uhhh..." Tommy found himself trailing off for a moment. What would be the right answer? What did Wilbur want to hear? "I miss- I miss Tubbo, I guess." He misses what L'manburg used to be, but L'manburg is nothing now, right?

Wilbur hummed. Tommy continued to watch him, staring as he placed a few cards down with deft fingers. The blonde was barely blinking, not willing to be anything but overly cautious in this wildly unpredictable scenario.

_He'd be lying if he were to claim he didn't feel guilty about what had become of his dear brother. He'd still be lying if he were to say that he cared enough to do something about it._

"We were so naive, weren't we?" Wilbur mused. "So naive to think that we'd have anything but burning bridges." Poetic at the best and worst times; That was something Wilbur had always been. Either poetic or just straight up dramatic. Tommy had always preferred the side of him that was chaotic in a good way over all of his theatrical bullshit.

_Am I the bad guy in your history, Tommy?_

_I want you to do whatever your heart desires to do._

_Independence or death. If we get no revolution, we want nothing._

_Tommy,_

_Tommy, are we the bad guys?_

He'd much rather take the "suck it green boi"s and "women are temporary. Revolution is forever"s than any of that, thank you very much. 

_Me and you, we both agree we're right. We're in the right here, aren't we? ...Then let's be the bad guys. Tommy, why not? Why not? Look, our nation's gone. Our nation's far behind us, Tommy. Let's blow that motherfucker to smithereens. Let's blow the whole thing up! I say, if we can't have Manberg, then no one, no one can have Manberg!_

**_Let's be the bad guys, Tommy._ **

A songbird crooning him over to its side, wings fluttering gently in a quickly progressing breeze that Tommy was bound to follow. His loyalty to Wilbur had been unshakable for so long. What had changed? When did he stop wanting to follow his brother around and preach "I'm just like you, Wil!"? When did he stop yearning for the pride that he would feel if he could get Wilbur to laugh and say that he was doing wonderful?

When did Phil's role turn into Wilbur's, and when did Wilbur's turn into Sam's? 

There's a pang in his heart as he thinks of what Sam might feel. Would Sam feel anything at all? He pushes it away- doubts, feelings, and all. There's no time for the what might've been's, the what could've been's, or any of that nonsense.

Well, maybe there is time. He's dead; He's got all the time in the world, after all, because he's already progressed past the ending. What is this- the epilogue? The sequel? It feels like it's been forever, and so he curses up at that metaphorical writer.

Tommy snorted. He leaned back against the wall, stance casual and yet eyes never leaving Wilbur and his stupid cards. "Don't be complaining about fucking- fucking 'burning bridges', dumbass, you ltierally _blew up_ the country." The 'it's all your fault' went unsaid. 

Even in potential danger, Tommy could never stop his mouth from running, could he? It's one of the many things that Dream had tried to _fix._ He does his best to suppress the shivers that come creeping up his spine.

Wilbur smiled. Tommy couldn't tell if the motion was cold, but it didn't seem like it. "Tommy. Do you blame me?"

Tommy stares at him. "...Fuck you." It's the only thing that he can bring himself to mutter. 

"You should." Tommy doesn't know where Wilbur is going with this, and he has a sneaking suspicious that he _does not want to know._ "You should blame me, and, heck, you should blame yourself! It all comes down to us, Tommy!" He swept his hands through the cards and Tommy flinched as they slid everywhere. "With- with us gone, that server will be so much better off, Tommy."

"Fuck you!" he shouts, finding an authority in his voice that he doesn't quite understand nor believe in. "Don't fucking- don't fucking _say-_ "

"Don't fucking say what?"

Wilbur's words might not be a challenge, but Tommy finds one in them anyways.

He hisses, running a hand through his hair and having the absentminded thought that it's really, really weird to not be sweating, even if they're in the afterlife and he's dead. No ghostly body odor, at least, right? But the thought passes by as quickly as it comes. He wonders what Wilbur would say if he told him that, interrupting his angsty little drama session and diffusing either the tension or any lightheartedness that might remain. It's what Tommyinnit does best, after all.

He causes problems, or he solves them in the worst way possible.

"I hate you," he scowls. "I fucking _hate_ you. You're- you're all-"

"I know what I'm like." Wilbur's voice is sickeningly sweet. "That's the issue."

The words make him feel so cold that he has to walk away. 

A month passes. It feels like multiple. Wilbur only gets worse, so, so, _so_ much worse, tongue laced in deceit and bitterness and hatred that Tommy is unfortunate enough to have to experience. Wilbur tells him about all the things he thinks about doing if he were to ever come back to life, and Tommy has never been more grateful that death is permanent. He fears for Tubbo, and Niki, and Phil, and Techno, because Wilbur seems intent on destroying all of the people that he'd once loved.

He will never have a chance, and for that Tommy is glad.

His mind whispers to him about the revive book, and he ignores it. Dream could've revived him by now if he were going to. It had been a month- longer than that! Was it almost two months? Tommy had tried to keep count of the days, tried to ground himself and tie himself down to a reality that he could no longer be a part of, but somewhere along the line he'd forgotten to mark a day and it had all stopped.

Plus, why would Dream _ever_ revive Wilbur? It wouldn't make any sense, and as much as Tommy hates Dream, he knows that when it comes to some things, he's far from stupid. (He is stupid, however, with his words and his _manipulation_ and his promises of friendship, because those only ever make Tommy hate him more.)

If Tommy was still dead, stuck in this hell with a once brother that had become little more than an enemy, the revive book couldn't be real. 

Tommy finds that the one person he can confide in is Mexican Dream. He thought at first that it might be painful, but was quick to discover that Mexican Dream really had no parallel to the real Dream, and that his presence could be quite comforting. He can rant to him and rest assured that nothing he says will be told to anyone else- not that there are any options besides the ram sleeping 24/7 and the insane solitaire-obsessed musician.

When he doesn't want to talk, Mexican Dream understands, in his own confusing, sometimes funny way. He'll tell Tommy ridiculous stories that he doubts are true, and occasionally hand over some drugs. Tommy doesn't ever do anything with the drugs except add them to a little stash in his corner of the void.

Tommy spends a lot of his time reading. Wilbur has been doing research- with what sources, Tommy isn't sure- and has compiled numerous books that are full to the brim with his messy scrawl of handwriting. Tommy finds that he enjoys reading through them- there are about five that are all on sand- because they're a reminder that Wilbur is still human. He avoids the opinionated ones, full of arguments and compelling persuasions, because he doesn't think he can handle anything that's not strictly informative.

He has enough of dealing with Wilbur's opinions, especially when the brunette makes him listen to him rant on and on about them. His rants feel like they go on forever. Everything here feels like it goes on forever.

But there are nice days- or hours, he's stopped being able to find the difference- where Wilbur will talk to him about nothing too serious and they'll have a good laugh. They discuss Wilbur's books occasionally, Tommy criticizing every minute grammar error and Wilbur refuting it with the sharp announcement of him doubting that Tommy could ever do better. For some reason, flower petals started to trail in Wilbur's wake about three weeks in to Tommy's arrival. They're white or yellow on the good days, blue on the bad days, and they were only ever purple once.

Tommy shakes away the memory. He doesn't _want_ to remember.

It's on a good day that the day becomes not-so-good, which really is a shame, Tommy thinks, because of how rare the good days are steadily becoming. He's listening to Wilbur sing and play his void-guitar. Even if the lyrics are rather concerning ("Can he break me? Can he break you? Oh, I don't know what I'm to do." "Wil, man, maybe you should consider investing in some therapy-") it's nice to see and hear his brother having a passion for something that doesn't involve destruction. 

As much as Wilbur's always been a poet, a leader, a creator of nations and words, his destructive side has been more prominent from the moment he and Tommy were kicked off their own land. Tommy finds it ironic, finds it funny, though he can't quite explain why.

A lot of things are pointlessly funny these days, and he's stopped questioning the way his own sense of humor has decided to work.

Wilbur's steady strum of the guitar stops abruptly, and Tommy looks up at him with both panic and confusion. The smile- smirk?- that comes onto Wilbur's face seems bittersweet. It's strange, and unusual, but as Tommy follows his gaze, he realizes why.

A girl, seemingly younger than him, stands behind the two of them, looking oddly ethereal. She seemed to be emitting a soft, golden aura with every movement. A white, cloth mask was pulled up over her nose and mouth, a black smiley face so reminiscent of Dream's dotted across it. Her eyes were bright green, too- in fact, if he didn't know better, Tommy might claim that this was a younger, female Dream. Her blonde hair was curled and fell to her shoulders, resting on the dark green fabric of a hoodie that she wore over black pants. Black, fingerless gloves were pulled over her hands. A compass necklace sat around her neck, a sheathed sword at her hip, and this was utterly, absolutely, Dream's sister Drista.

Tommy tried to ignore the angel-like wings that were protruding from her back, but that proved to be pretty difficult.

He gaped at her. "I- what- what the actual _fuck_ is going on?" he stammered, staring at her. "Are you dead, Drista? Why the fuck do you have _wings_? I-" he broke off with a sigh, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was feeling a little lightheaded.

"'Sup, child." Yeah, this was definitely Drista. "Nah, I'm not dead. More like I've never been alive in the first place. Hate to crash the party, but duty calls." She crouched down besides where they were sitting on the ground, tucking her wings in to her back.

"Hey, Drista." She acknowledged Wilbur's greeting with a nod. "What's going on this time?" Tommy stared between the two of them, struggling to form anything remotely close to a coherent sentence or thought.

Suddenly, a blue sheep materialized out of nowhere and bounded towards Wilbur, who gave a laugh that was more real than anything Tommy might've heard from him over the past maybe-a-month. He set his guitar aside and ran his hands through the soft blue wool as the sheep settled in his lap.

"Is that- is that _Friend_?" Tommy asked, eyebrows furrowed as he stared. 

"Mhm." Wilbur leaned forward to rest his head on the sheep, stroking it. "Funny thing, Tommy. Friend's my guardian angel."

Maybe that was why, in this moment, Wilbur seemed so normal and so _happy._ Maybe that was why he seemed so alive.

Tommy stared at him, and then burst into a bout of snickers that seemed more forced than he wanted them to be. "I- oh my God, Wil, now is not the time for jokes. Okay, alright, big man, you've got a _sheep_ as your guardian angel- hey, if you have a guardian angel, they really did a shitty job at protecting you- can I get a real explanation now, _please_?"

"Hate to burst your bubble," sighed Drista, tugging down her cloth mask and flashing a tired smile at him, "but Wil's telling the truth. For once." Wilbur ignored the snarky addition, grinning.

At that, Tommy gave a very big sigh, running a hand through his hair as he tried to comprehend what was going on. Death, and this entire void... It was already weird enough. Did the world really have to go and make itself even _weirder,_ to an extent that he hadn't imagined possible? He should've expected it.

"Alright, fine," he grumbled. "So what does that make you? _My_ guardian angel?"

When she didn't deny it right away or start laughing at him, he found himself staring.

Wilbur, however, was laughing enough for both of them, the sound slightly muffled by how he buried his face into Friend's side. "You should see yourself, Tommy, you sound so sad," he snickered. "Please- please continue making that facial expression, I'd like to imprint it into my memory for forever. You look _so_ stupid-"

Tommy's cheeks went pink, whether from embarrassment or frustration he wasn't sure. "Shut up, Wil," he grumbled, only receiving more snickers from him. He turned his attention back to Drista, who had a faint look of amusement across her face as she watched the interaction. "Drista. Drista, please tell me that you are not my guardian angel."

"I don't make a habit of lying, Tommy," she drawled, glancing down at her nails in a bored manner and examining them. He spluttered, searching for an answer, before giving another big sigh.

"That is _so weird,_ " he stressed. "Fucking strange, innit? The sister of that green asshole is my guardian angel." He buried his face in his hands, giving a muffled, "What the actual fuck?"

Drista gave a noncommittal hum. "Nah, I'm not actually his _sister,_ per say. We're related, just very distantly. I'm much older than him."

"...How much older are you talking?"

"Centuries," Wilbur informed dryly, and Drista made no move to correct him. Tommy spluttered, choking on his words, before taking a deep, albeit shaky, breath. 

"Can you- can you explain, please?"

It was Drista's turn to sigh. She gave a reluctant shake of her head, eyes betraying how upset she seemed. Tommy wondered why, and wondered if he really wanted to find out. "Can't, sorry. I'm going to need you to come with me, Tommy, and we don't have all day."

Tommy eyed her suspiciously. "Where, exactly?"

"Can't tell you. Just have to get this done with." She extended a hand. "Are you ready, Tommy? You might wanna say goodbye to Wilbur."

Tommy frowned at her. He tried to ignore the sting of the fear and panic, focusing on keeping his eyes narrowed and hopefully somewhat intimidating. It didn't look like it was working by her lack of a reaction. "What the fuck do I need to say goodbye for? What're you going to do if I don't take your hand?"

"Take yours." She shrugged.

"That is illegal, I am a minor, Drista, and you are _not_ -"

She rolled her eyes. "Physically, I am. Now, c'mon, Tommy, please." She placed her other hand on her hip. 

"Don't worry, Tommy," Wilbur inputted helpfully. "You won't have to deal with _me_ anymore, if my suspicions are correct." He glanced at Drista, who nodded, and let out a low whistle. "Damn, Tommy. I'd say you're lucky, but I've lied enough."

"Wilbur, you're not helping." She sighed. "Anyway. Tommy?" She glanced down at her own extended hand and then back up to meet his eyes.

His eyes hadn't dulled in color again, but they seemed less bright. She doubted that they'd still be this color after what would happen to him. They'd go back to being grey, because all the world does is taint what should've been pure.

"Fucking fine," he muttered, taking her hand.

Maybe he shouldn't have.

With a flap of angel wings and an apologetic smile, everything faded into nothing.

If anything, wherever the heck he was now was much more of a void than the official, afterlife void had been. It was completely and utterly dark, and he was surrounded in nothing but pure shadow. He shuddered. He couldn't walk, could barely move, and it was hard to breathe. He took in a shaky breath, trying to force the air into his lungs. He screamed until it hurt, screamed until he couldn't and his throat felt scratchy.

"-ommy? Tommy!"

With a shuddering gasp of a breath, he opened his eyes and sat up, realizing how much everything hurt.

The prison's wall of lava sat before him, and Dream was at his side.

He wanted to pass out again.


	2. Seas Would Rise When I Gave The Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, no things weren't supposed to happen this way.
> 
> Tommy isn't so sure that he likes being alive again, and Dream's presence is no help. Two teenagers say goodnight and a God will be fated to learn that you shouldn't play with hell.
> 
> They don't remember, do they?
> 
> (cw: panic attack, talk of death/dying etc., ...dream being an asshole)

It's with both a sinking horror and wide-eyed awe that Tommy marvels the fact that he's alive again.

He can _breathe-_ God, it's so weird to breathe again- and he can sweat. The heat of the lava is suffocating and the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead are _so_ uncomfortable but it makes him feel so real again and he almost wants to laugh in how delightfully relieving that is. Wilbur is nowhere nearby and that might be the most wonderful part of this all.

If only Dream wasn't standing at his side, the sight of that smiley face with its dripping ink and cracked porcelain sending a sense of foreboding to clutch at his heart.

His breaths are immediately shaky. All he can think about is how Wilbur made fun of him for the way his breathing would get like that whenever he panicked. He'd like to say that Wilbur was no help, no help at all, but his hugs were somewhat enough. Here, in this cell, this goddamned cell that's nothing more than a glorified hell, Wilbur isn't here to hug him. He scrambled to get away from him, slamming against the obsidian wall so hard that the sound of the crash was painful to hear.

"Get- get away from me- you fucker- what the hell, what the _hell_ -" The words flew out automatically, a blur of sound that he struggled to register. 

Dream clicked his tongue. He was all condescending and disappointed, smile of the mask seeming patronizing. "Now, now, Tommy, calm down," he chastised. Tommy did everything he could to stop the rise of the panic in his chest. Even if he needed to anchor himself with Dream's voice (of all things- he was rather disgusted at himself but there wasn't exactly another option), he would. "Tell me, what was it like?"

The replies slip out before he can stop them. "It was- it was a shitty ass void- by God, Wilbur- Wilbur, I need Wil-"

"Was he there?" Dream's voice held a childlike curiosity as he took a step closer to Tommy, head tilted to the side. "Did you get to talk to Wilbur?"

He answers between his gasps for breath, doing all that he can to keep himself close to reality. He doesn't want his mind to wander off again, become detached and free- no, he desperately needs to be here. "Wilbur, and Mexican Dream, and- and Schlatt, fucking Schlatt-" He closed his eyes, burying his head in his hands. 

Dream crouched down to his level, and even then it felt like the man was towering over him. Tommy wanted to throw up. 

"Look at me, Tommy." Almost automatically, he did. He forced himself to look up at Dream, avoiding having to look into the eyes of his mask as much as he possibly could. "Tell me, what did it feel like?"

"...What did it _feel..._ What did what feel like?" 

_"Death_." As Tommy stared at him, incredulity and horror so clear in his gaze, Dream plowed on. "Tommy, this is the first time something like this has ever happened. I'll be honest, I wasn't even sure if it was going to _work-"_

He gritted his teeth and mustered up the courage to glare at him. "You motherfucker, I hate you, I hate you, I-" He took a deep breath. It was less shaky, now, and for that he was grateful. "Death was- death- it was like- like my body was taken apart and put back together again." He shuddered.

God, Tommy was so incredibly tired.

Exhaustion was strange and strangely human. He was far too vulnerable. He moved farther away from Dream on weak limbs before directing his eyes towards the wall of lava. He hated the lava, and the reminder that it was so close was terrifying, but anything was better than Dream.

Before he knew it, Dream was at his side again, and Tommy's exhaustion was so strong that he wasn't in the mood to bother with moving away. His mind felt like a foggy haze, suffocated under the heat of the prison cell. Was Sam out there, beyond the lava? Would Sam let him out? Would Sam even know to check for him in here, or... His eyes widened the slightest fraction. 

Sam thought he was dead. _Everyone_ out there thought that he was dead.

He could be stuck in here for even longer and nobody would ever know. 

His brain dimly registered that he had begun to hyperventilate. He was breathing so quickly that it made him lightheaded, palms clammy as he buried his face into them. It only got worse when Dream reached out and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. His brain screamed at him to move away and he tried to. His legs wouldn't work. Why wouldn't they work? Why couldn't he move? He wanted to scream, but it felt like a hand was around his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs every time that he tried.

The hand on his shoulder moved for a split second and Tommy froze.

Dream hugged him.

Dream hugged him, and for a minute, he was Wilbur.

Tommy was little again, arms slung around his brother's neck as they watched the departing forms of Phil and Techno grow smaller and smaller. They disappeared, and Tommy grew impatient as Wilbur continued staring after where they'd been. He remembers asking when they'd be back. They never were.

He was confused again but far too trusting, as the scene shifted and Wilbur was leading him by the hand away from their little snow-covered cottage. Evergreen trees surrounded them, stretching up to the sky and rapidly growing in number. Wilbur was chattering on about things Tommy couldn't understand, nonetheless drawing out enthusiastic responses and excitement-ridden laughter.

He was clutching discs and melting into Wilbur's embrace, only letting him whisper on and on about how glad he was for Tommy to be safe because it would let his brother sleep at night. And maybe, deep down in a part of him he'd never acknowledge, it was nice to hear that somebody really wanted him. It was nice to be loved.

He was crying in the arms of a silently listening Wilbur who rubbed circles into his back and made sure he kept breathing. His sobs carried the pain of betrayal, a pain that Eret's actions had brought onto both of them. He made Wilbur swear that he'd tell no one of Tommy's moment of being pathetic; Wilbur swore that he could trust him, and that it wasn't pathetic to cry. Tommy let himself believe him. 

He was standing with his arms wrapped around him, two founding fathers of a nation and brothers, laughing at how ridiculously real it all finally was. Wilbur was laughing, too, and they let themselves be happy. Even with the fresh promise of guitar songs and hot chocolate by a fire that night, Tommy didn't want to let go or step back.

He was sobbing, choking on his own breaths as he grabbed Wilbur's hand and they ran. The cold of the night embraced them and it was far from pleasant. As the arrow pierced Wilbur and it was his own son wielding the bow with a face set into stone, Tommy felt so utterly lost.

He was so incredibly empty as his brother, nothing more than a poet at heart, was chipped away into something much more cruel. He was frozen as Wilbur crooned into his ear about how he was nothing to anyone but him. He didn't return the embrace or melt into it; He would've recoiled if he could have. He didn't let himself believe Wilbur, and is that what saved him? He didn't save Wilbur, and he should've. How selfish of him.

He was pretending to be indifferent as Wilbur hugged him goodnight on one of the bad days. It had been Tommy having the bad day, not Wilbur, but the latter had been _there_ for him for the first time in forever. Tommy was pretending to not be breaking under the weight of his relief and longing. The temptation to hug him back was one he shouldn't have been able to resist, but he's always been far too stubborn.

(He wishes that he wasn't.)

That was the last time Wilbur had hugged him. It was only days after that their world had gone up in flames and it had been Wilbur gripping the parabolic lighter with dirt-smudged fingers and whitening knuckles. It had been Phil to take everything away and cradle Wilbur's dying body as if he hadn't just taken away any chance of his son's redemption. 

It had been Wilbur to break the promise of forever, and so Tommy learned to not trust promises.

Hugging Ghostbur was never the same. The ghost, the shell of a man who had started and ruined so many lives throughout his own, was lifelessly cold. It made sense, didn't it? Tommy hated how badly it hurt. Ghostbur was nothing more than a floating corpse, carrying with him the wind of bitter reminders. His hold was as suffocating as it was empty.

And in the void, things only got more confusing.

His thoughts only ever grew more conflicted. As far back as he could remember, Wilbur had never minded indulging in Tommy's desires for physical affection. He provided the hair ruffles, embraces, and playful shoving that Phil and Techno would never; Phil simply never bothered and even the smallest bit of physical contact tended to make Techno uncomfortable. In the void, had Wilbur calmed him down and rubbed his back out of obligation? Tommy would've still been unpleased if it were out of pity, or _sympathy,_ but he hated obligatory fakeness more than he hated anything.

A part of him hopes that Wilbur really did care and wasn't just forcing himself to fill the role of Tommy's guardian that he'd always taken up. Another part of him resents Wilbur and his stupid affection, because fuck him and everything that he stands for. 

(A third part of him just wants to love Wilbur and wants Wilbur to love him back, to be the brothers that they were before the temptations of leadership and fatal destruction stole him away.)

"-thing, Tommy."

His head hurt.

Dream's voice snapped him back to reality and he pushed himself away from the man as if his touch were poisonous. It's with bitter amusement that he muses that he wouldn't be surprised if that were true. "Don't you _fucking_ touch me," he whispered. He tried to growl the words, lace them up all nice and deadly with ribbons of menace, but if he had to settle for whispers of intimidation, so be it. "I'll kill you if you do."

"Oh, really?" Dream's voice is full of amusement. "Well-"

Tommy glared up at him with the low amount of strength that he could muster. Dream didn't deserve to have his words go un-interrupted, did he? His voice was still so soft, no matter how he tried to scream. "This- this is where you're gonna die, in the prison on your own fucking server... you'll die!" He barked a laugh. It was painfully forced. "Revival will go down with you! You'll _never, ever_ get out of here! I'm gonna kill you, and I'm-" He faltered, eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm gonna be trapped all alone in here." He frowned. He glanced at Dream, whose mask hid every potential clue of what he might be feeling. Tommy imagined he was smiling, tight-lipped and smug. 

"If I kill you, _I'll_ be in here all alone- and Sam..."

Dream's voice was calm, collected, and so awfully smug that he hated it. "Sam doesn't know you're in here." The words held almost a sing-song lilt to them, so different from how Dream normally spoke. No, that was something that Wilbur had always done with his voice. Was Dream doing that on purpose to provoke him? He clenched his fists and glared; He wouldn't be surprised. "Sam doesn't know you're in here, and who knows how long it'd take him to check? And even if he did find you, it'd just look like I escaped." There was an awful grin seeping into the man's voice. "He'd think you broke me out, and you know what that'd mean, don't you?"

Tommy felt the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. "I'd... I'd..." He swallowed thickly. "I'd be stuck in here forever. I- No, no, no no no no, Sam would let me out! Sam cares about me, he told me he loves me, Dream, so why are you trying to manipu-"

"Sam is the prison warden, and you know that he takes that job _very_ seriously, Tommy." Tommy wanted to choke that patronizing tone out of him. "You'd be in here forever until he could find me, and he never would find me, you know?" 

He continued when Tommy stared at him without speaking. "You say that Sam loves you, right? Why would he still bother loving you if you were a killer?" His voice dropped, low and malicious. "You see what happens to people like me, Tommy."

" _Shut up!_ " Tommy screamed, though his voice was so hoarse that it was much more of a whisper than a scream. "Shut up, shut up, shut your stupid mouth you shitty green motherfucker, I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate-"

Dream held up his hands in surrender and Tommy hated how he couldn't stop himself from flinching at the very motion. "I'm just giving you the truth that no one else will. You can't blame me for that." His voice softened into something that was a cruel imitation of caring. "You should get some sleep, Tommy, and maybe then we can talk some more about what you experienced."

Tommy didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to feed into Dream's sick fascination with death and the afterlife, and he _did not_ want to relive what he'd experienced. But sleep sounded nice. For someone who hated the idea that being unconscious would make him vulnerable, sleep came too easily. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let himself be submerged into a peaceful nothingness that was so quiet that it felt like heaven.

* * *

"Ranboo!"

Ranboo glanced up at the sound of his name, patient smile gracing his features as he looked toward Tubbo. If it was a little less patient than it had been multiple hours ago when they'd only started on their task, he hoped Tubbo wouldn't notice. The brunette gave no sign that he didn't, simply beaming back.

"How does this sign look?" He held up a piece of paper.

In retrospect, maybe it hadn't been the best idea to give Tubbo the task of making the sign for their inn, but Ranboo doubted that his version would've been much better. He looked at the paper and the scrawls of crayon scribbled across it- wow, Tubbo certainly wasn't shy with the crayon scribbles. Maybe the "Bee n' Boo" part should've been a bit more prominent, and the scribbles a bit more easy to decipher as the bees and stick figures of the two of them that they were, but it was definitely better than his other twenty-three attempts.

Not that that was saying much. The bar was on the floor. 

"Looks nice!" Ranboo had discovered today that he was an expert at maintaining polite patience for a long, long amount of time. The day felt like it had stretched on forever. He was hoping that he was doing a good job at helping Tubbo better his art while still being kind about it. "Maybe we need the words to be a bit darker, to see them against the grey? And the hair and eyes looks a tad lopsided on both of us, but that's alright, it adds to the, uh, charm."

Tubbo hummed in reply, the sound noncommittal, before he started snickering. Ranboo's eyes widened and he looked over at him with clear confusion, waiting for him to recover from the sudden laughing fit that had overtaken him.

"You're funny, Ranboo," Tubbo giggled. "You're trying so hard to be nice when I'm just trying so hard to do worse and worse on these to make you frustrated." 

"I-" Ranboo paused, shaking his head and letting out a very long sigh that held all of his fond exasperation. "...I'm not even surprised at this point." He honestly should've expected it. 

As much as Tubbo was grinning at him, it was clear that he was just as exhausted as Ranboo was. They really needed to go to sleep soon. "'It adds to the _charm'_ ," Tubbo mocked, doing his best impression of a Ranboo voice. "Do you really find horribly drawn crayon hair charming, Ranboo?"

He sighed. Again. He took the papers that were laid out in front of him and set them into a neat little stack. They were covered in neat lines and tiny handwriting, containing different ideas for the layout of the hotel. "Tubbo, I love you, but I think it'd be a good idea if we get some sleep now."

"Okay! I'm going to go check on Michael." Not waiting for a response, Tubbo raced off, and so Ranboo set about cleaning up the remaining stray papers that were scattered over the table.

It was a wonder that Tubbo was still smiling and laughing, feeling good enough to joke around. Ranboo was glad that his platonic husband wasn't feeling unwell, don't get him wrong, but it was almost alarming how he barely even seemed sad after the... recent events. 

Even Ranboo struggled to deal with his conflicting, overwhelming emotions, which he assumed was part of the reason that he felt so stressed recently. He was angry that it had even happened in the first place. He was angry that Sam had _let_ it happen and hadn't been able to save... him.

Tommy shouldn't be dead.

Ranboo spent hours walking throughout the SMP the day after he and Tubbo had received the news, finding himself visiting the places that he'd been to with Tommy. Tommy, a troublemaker at heart, loud and annoying and insensitive to the point where it was painful, had been the first friend Ranboo had made when he arrived on the server. He had lied to protect him. He was always a fire. He wasn't a fire like Tubbo was, bringing warmth and comfort and the serenity of a peaceful night. No, he was stinging and burning, raging flames that had somehow been put out. Ranboo wondered how. 

He'd cradled flowers in his arms and done everything that he could to not cry. It was good that he'd gotten skilled at holding back tears. They burnt his skin and left a scar, as all water did. He'd planted flowers outside of Tommy's house and wished that he could've done more.

Sleep hadn't come easy for days unless he was truly exhausted. Nightmares of Tommy haunted him, taunting him with a voice full of scorn and hating him for not doing better. Because nobody had done enough, right? Nobody had bothered to check on the flame that was trapped under a glass jar.

Ranboo knew Tubbo well enough to see that he wasn't entirely unaffected. He heard the way his voice would break at times, the way he'd blink back tears and seem to think that Ranboo couldn't tell they were there. He'd spent a long time holed up in his room one day, and Ranboo had heard the faint sound of some music disc drifting out from behind the locked door. He settled for the fact that Tubbo must just be in denial.

It would make sense. After all, how can one just accept the fact that their best friend was dead?

He simply resolved to do everything that he could to be there for him whenever he might need it. That's what platonic husbands are for, right? So if Tubbo ever decided that he needed a shoulder to cry on, or someone to reminisce with, or anything at all, he'd be there to give it to him. 

He hoped that it might be even remotely close to enough.

That night, as they climbed into their separate beds in their shared room, Ranboo scrawled a quick "be there for him" into his memory book before tucking it away into his bag at the side of his bed. He was sure that he'd remember, and he'd do it anyway no matter the situation, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Tubbo smiled over at him, reaching up to click out the light. "Goodnight, Ranboo!"

Ranboo smiled back. He wondered if Tubbo would catch on to the hint of sadness. "Night, Tubbo."

He turned off the light and their world submerged into darkness. Ranboo hoped that sleep would bring calm dreams and no horrific nightmares, because he wasn't sure how many more of those he'd be able to handle until he snapped.

If only he and Tubbo knew that it would be a long while before they'd ever say goodnight to each other again.

* * *

Tommy hadn't known that it was possible to hate someone as much as he hated Dream, but his expectations were exceeded further with every single moment that he spent with the masked man.

Dream had managed to coax a few more answers out of him after he woke up, constantly badgering him with questions about his experience in the afterlife until he had no choice but to answer at least a few of them. Tommy hated him for that, and what he hated even more was the way that Dream treated his answers like they were bits of data from a particularly interesting science experiment. 

Was that all that Tommy was now? A means to an end, a human book of answers?

When Dream told him that he'd only put him through all that agony in order to prove a point, Tommy had punched him.

Tommy groaned. He was standing now, leaning against the wall of cursed obsidian and crossing his arms over his chest. Dream was walking around the room as he talked to him, not coming too close because every time that he did, Tommy refused to speak back. He took one angry bite of a potato that Dream had given him, hating the bland taste and everything about it, before chucking it into the lava. It was satisfying to watch it disappear.

Dream tossed him a book and a pencil, one of the few that were still left in the prison. "Here. Write down a list of all the things that happened to you in the afterlife."

Tommy scowled at him. "Why the fuck would I do that?"

"Because I'm telling you to." 

He glared at him. "That's a shit reason."

"If you'd be more cooperative, this wouldn't be necessary," Dream sighed. Tommy felt a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Dream's tone but he used his classic method of burying it down. Dream didn't deserve his guilt.

Tommy stared down at the book and the pencil. Books only reminded him of Wilbur and the void, and Wilbur in Pogtopia, and Wilbur back home. In the void, it was informative novels on everything Wilbur knew about animals and sand and the most random topics that Tommy didn't care about. In Pogtopia, it was paragraphs and paragraphs that resembled diary entries, quickly growing more and more cruel and less comprehensible. With his mental state went his literacy.

Back home, it was poetry.

Wilbur had dabbled in songwriting and poetry from a very, very young age, leaving papers and notebooks strewn all over the house. Tommy used to gather the stray pages and read them over, both to make fun of Wilbur and internally admire him for his way with words. Tommy had never shared the gift of forming intricate stories with little more than a few lines on a paper.

Tommy wondered why he still considers that cottage in the middle of nowhere as home. Maybe it's because a home is built out of love and back then there was no conflict on whether Wilbur cared or not. Maybe it's because things were so simple and he took that for granted. Maybe it's just because he really does have such a bad habit of getting overly attached to material possessions and regarding them with such warm sentimentality.

Home was wherever Wilbur was. When he and Wilbur left that cottage, it was the day he started to lose Wilbur.

Home then became wherever Tubbo was. God, he misses Tubbo.

He remembers finding a singular poem in Pogtopia the day before Wilbur had died. He remembers burning the paper and doing nothing about it because he was so, so foolish and naive. He remembers committing the words to memory because it was the last of Wilbur's truths that he had ever found.

The poem spoke of Wilbur wanting to be Icarus. It hurts to remember.

He remembers how Techno, in the height of his Greek mythology phase, would relate all of their actions to those of mythological characters. Maybe Wilbur embraced the role of Icarus in bitter memory of their brother. Tommy refused to accept the role of Theseus that Techno was so intent on pushing onto him. Theseus sounded stupid. 

Tommy hates the implication that Wilbur wanted to burn, wanted to fall, wanted to lose his wings to his own burning flames.

Families are often shitty in mythology and stories, right? Plot devices to make the story better, more complex, more real. So maybe his happy family with Wilbur and Tubbo and Niki and Fundy and Eret really was never meant to be. Illusions never are.

"...Tommy? You need to stop zoning out."

Dream had the nerve to keep up that condescending tone. Tommy gritted his teeth, glaring at him with fire in his eyes. There's no spark that can't be reignited again.

"Look, Dream, get it through your thick head. Does that mask fuck with your rationality? I- I don't want to help you and your shitty obsession with the afterlife," he spat. "So you can take your dumbass little books and go fuck yourself, you big prick." He tossed the book into the lava, doing the same with the pencil, and reveled in the triumphant satisfaction that it brought.

"C'mon, Tommy." Dream's voice was sickeningly sweet. Dream's voice sounded like Wilbur's even though their voices were truly nothing alike. "I want to know more about what happened to you- what happened to you and your dear brother _Wilby_ up there!"

Tommy wanted nothing more than to kill him right then and there.

"Don't you go calling him that," he snapped. "I was trapped with Wil for _months,_ Dream. Months! You- you fucking know what he's like, I'm sure you can guess some of the shit that went on." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Trying to stop remembering.

Dream didn't reply for a moment, mask tilted towards Tommy, and he felt a flash of worry. Had something that he'd said-

"Months, you say," Dream eventually commented, voice impassive. 

"Well, more like one and a half, you fucking bastard," he spat. "Why the hell did you keep me dead for so long? I had to be in that shitty- shitty _void_ for almost two months! You don't need that much time to prove your point, do you?" His voice was incredulous, but he would be lying if he were to say that it would surprise him if Dream had waited that long in order to torture him.

Dream stared at him. "Tommy, you were only dead for _two days._ "

He paled, blood draining from his face. "I- what?" Had he heard Dream correctly? No, no, he couldn't have. "...No, no, stop lying. Please- please, Dream, stop trying to manipulate me, it's not going to work." He narrowed his eyes with newfound confidence. "I was definitely there for more than two days. With Wilbur-"

"That's _interesting._ " Dream's sick fascination was back. "A difference in time passage between here and the afterlife... huh."

"None of this is interesting," he retorted sharply, . But he was barely focusing on his own words as he said them. Dream couldn't be lying- no, he wasn't. This made sense with some of the things that Wilbur had said. That Wilbur had been dead for _years._

Dream was apparently having the same realization, though he came to a much different conclusion.

"...So how long has _Wilbur_ been dead for? Around six months in our time... How long has it been for him? He's been in the afterlife for _so_ many years." Tommy's eyes widened as he realized what Dream might be implying.

"No- no- don't even think about it, Dream, the things that he said-"

There was a sickening grin that mixed into the man's voice. "I'm going to bring back Wilbur." Tommy gaped at him, horrified, but he continued. "He's probably one of the smartest people in the world by now! And he'll owe me his _life!_ "

"No, no, no, Dream, _don't do this_ ," Tommy begged. "Please, please, whatever you do, don't bring back Wilbur. That would be the worst fucking decision that you could ever make, and you've made some pretty shit decisions. Look, I'll do _anything_ if you promise to not bring back Wilbur!" He was rambling now, mouth working faster than his brain. "I'll be your friend, Dream, and I'll tell you about the afterlife, and I'll do whatever you need me to, but you cannot bring back Wilbur." 

He wasn't thinking of himself anymore. He was thinking of Tubbo, and Niki, and even fucking Technoblade and Philza and everything that Wilbur had mused of doing to them. He was thinking of Eret, and Fundy, and Quackity, and _so many people_ that Wilbur would hurt. Wilbur would kill them. Wilbur would make it painful. 

He was beginning to feel lightheaded again. He turned to stare at the lava, taking a few steps toward it. He wondered if it could burn away all of his problems.

"Oh, Tommy." Dream sounded sympathetic. Tommy knew he wasn't. "If I have Wilbur, I won't _need_ you to help me anymore. He'll help me escape, and we can lock you up forever like I'd planned originally, and there'll be nothing you can do." He laughed, a maniac, gleeful cackle. "I'm bringing back Wilbur, Tommy, and he'll break me out of here."

"Dream, please think this through. You're not an idiot, not really! _Do not bring back Wilbur_."

Dream tugged up his mask to show his smile, and Tommy hated it.

"I'm bringing back Wilbur."

Tommy stared at him as a silver glow started to envelope Dream's mask. 

" _Fuck."_

He stumbled to the floor, wanting to scream but not quite able to. He wasn't quite sure when he'd passed out, or how long he'd been unconscious for, but he woke up to find himself on the ground, in the same spot he'd been in. 

Dream was at his side, mask back over his entire face, and he glanced over at him when he realized Tommy was awake.

"Welcome back, Tommy," he greeted. "Might as well get right into business, right? I've realized _exactly_ what I can do with you."

He didn't like the sound of that. He didn't like the sound of that at all.

The words barely registered in the blonde's head. Dream's words sounded vague and nondescript, lost in the fogginess of sleep that hadn't cleared from his mind. He blinked, pushing himself up into a sitting position and trying to focus. He yelped when he felt Dream roughly grab the back of his shirt.

"What the fuck-" The words came out slurred and barely comprehensible. Dream cut through them quickly.

"There's still so much more research that I need to do, Tommy, and I think I'll have _you_ do it for me." The words sent chills racing down his spine. "You know what that means, don't you?" Tommy tried to struggle out of Dream's hold, but the man's grip on his shirt was impossibly tight.

_No. No-_

"You _asshole-_ let go of me, let go, you are _not_ going to kill me again-"

"Oh, but I am." Dream's voice was cold. "And I'll do it over, and over, and over again. Because you know what, Tommy?" He didn't wait for a reply. "I am a _God._ You're just a pawn on my chessboard, and I can take and give you lives as I see fit."

The honey that dripped into his voice was poison.

"See you again soon, Tommy."

He moved to push Tommy into the lava.

But as he did, an arm that didn't belong to Dream wrapped around Tommy's waist and pulled him backwards. It felt like a blur of movement, happening so fast that Tommy didn't know how exactly it had happened. Both relief and horror filled him as a familiar voice filled his ears.

The swish of a coat, a dissonant chord, and a song that had never truly stopped.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

☌⍜⎅⌇ ⏃⍀⟒ ⋏⍜⏁ ⟟⋔⋔⍜⍀⏁⏃⌰

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayup how are we feeling about this chapter mah friendsssss
> 
> i'm going to try to update every 4-7 days, so stay tuned :D
> 
> *looks at my plans for this*  
> *sweats nervously* oh boy
> 
> thanks 4 the kudos n all that you guys are so pog!!

**Author's Note:**

> title & chapter titles from viva la vida by coldplay
> 
> my discord is nanashi#5345
> 
> inspired by stuff i thought up when i couldn't sleep :D hope you enjoyed
> 
> (the plot as its put in the description will start to pick up around chapter three or four)


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